He grinned at her, the change of expression sudden, transforming his face from handsome to heart-stopping. Her breath caught in her throat. He was the finest-looking man she’d ever seen. It was the kind of smile that stole a woman’s breath, a lover’s knowing grin. No one had ever looked at her like that—not Sinjon or William, and certainly not Speed or Mandeville. Her heart skipped a beat. Her bodice felt too tight, and it was hard to breathe.
“Are you looking for someone?” she asked, as if he, not she, was the one trespassing.
“I came looking for my sisters. I didn’t expect to see you here. Not so soon, at least.”
Now what did that mean? She swallowed, wondered if he were dangerous. She backed up one more step. “I’m the only one here, I’m afraid. Perhaps you’ll excuse me. I must go.” She waited for him to move, but he stood staring at her instead.
“If you please, I—”
Someone pushed her. She felt strong hands on her back, and suddenly she was flying through the air. She cried out and waited to land on the flagstone floor far below.
His arms came around her, caught her against his chest. She felt the sun-warmed heat of his body, the hardness of his muscles, the beat of his heart against her own. She met the surprise in his eyes, her nose was an inch from his for an instant before he turned and pressed her against the wall, keeping her safe, trying to get his own balance. He glanced over the edge, then back at her. She could see her face reflected in his eyes, caught the faint tang of whisky on his breath, and the scent of heather.
“Someone pushed me!” she gasped, and he looked at her dubiously before stepping back. He kept one hand under her elbow. He didn’t even bother to look up to see if there was someone behind her.
“The steps are dangerous. The whole tower is. It should have been pulled down a hundred years ago!” He began to descend the steps, still holding her, one hand on her elbow, one around her waist, assisting her, keeping her safe, as if she were indeed a princess—his princess. His touch turned her to jelly, and the stone wall made her cold on one side, and the heat of his body made her burn on the other.
Caroline stopped walking and looked back up the steps, but there was no one there.
He followed her gaze. “You said yourself you were alone,” he said sensibly.
She was alone, wasn’t she? Except for the handsome Scottish stranger. But he’d been below her. He couldn’t have pushed her. She felt her face color again. He probably thought she’d thrown herself at him in response to his impromptu proposal of marriage. She’d probably imagined that too.
He let her go as soon as they were on solid ground, and stepped back to a proper distance. He indicated with a sweeping gesture that she should precede him out the door, back into the heat and light of the real world. She stood numbly mortified as he tugged hard on the heavy wooden door to close it. “How on earth did you manage to shift this?” he said as he picked up a heavy beam of wood, studded with iron. “This door has been barred shut for years.”
Caroline frowned. Had the door been closed when she arrived? She didn’t remember opening it. She watched him set the heavy oak bar in place, his muscles flexing under the linen of his shirt. She certainly would have remembered moving that.
She clasped her hands around her arms and felt a chill pass through her as she recalled Megan asking if she believed in ghosts. Of course she didn’t. But as she stared up at the stone walls, at the empty window, it felt again as if someone was watching her. Prickles crawled over her flesh. What an odd place it was.
“I trust I don’t have to warn you to stay out of the tower, lass.”
Lass? Caroline swallowed. He thought her a local girl, perhaps. She supposed she did not look anything like the daughter of an English earl, or even a governess, for that matter. The wind lifted her hair, and red tendrils reached out to him. She stepped back and caught it in her hands, tidying it, reaching for the pins in her pocket.
A call made him turn. Caroline’s stomach dropped to her feet. It was the girls, coming back across the hillside, their arms—and their skirts—laden with flowers. The countess would not approve. Megan’s hair was unbound, bedecked with wildflowers, and her feet were bare. Sorcha was skipping hand in hand with another girl her age. Alanna was following with an armload of flowers, her cheeks flushed. Now these were lasses—happy, carefree, and sun-kissed.
She would have to hurry them back to the castle, see that they washed their faces, combed their hair. She would firmly remind them of the rules, tell them they were the daughters of an earl, and— She swallowed. Even in the silence of her own mind, she sounded like Somerson.
And here she stood, disheveled, her skirt stained with dust and moss, looking like—well, a lass. With a man. Whatever would the countess say to her? She’d dismiss her at once, of course, and rightly so—and then where would she go? Back to London? No.
Her rescuer had turned away from lecturing her, and was watching the girls, his hand shading his eyes, the breeze stirring the dark hair on his forearm where his shirt was rolled up. He was disheveled too, a mossy green stain on his shoulder. She saw a slow smile bloom over his features, transforming him again.
The girls obviously knew him. She could see it in the way they dropped the flowers and ran toward him, yelling like hoydens, with the rest of the lads and lasses following them eagerly.
Propriety. She was a governess now, not a lass. In a moment they’d spot her as well. She could imagine the gossip, the speculation, the comments. The tale was sure to get back to Countess Devina. Caroline edged deeper into the shadow of the old tower, and then fled around the back of it. She scrambled down the path that led through the woods, back to Glenlorne, and sanity.
She needed to change her own gown and wash her face, and remember who she was.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Alec!”
He turned to watch his eldest half sister racing up the slope of the hill toward him. At least he thought they were his sisters. They were grown women now, not the girls he remembered. Was that truly Megan, the tall lass with the dark hair, and Alanna in the blue gown? Village lads trailed behind them like a pack of dogs on the hunt. Of course, it was Midsummer, and there was sunshine, flowers, and laughter. A dangerous combination, he thought protectively, and realized that he sounded as old as his grandfather, as stiff as Westlake. They’d grown up to be beauties. What lad could resist?
He opened his arm in time to catch the first girl as she hurtled into him. He enfolded her in a hug. “You smell like heather, Alanna!” he said.
“I’m Sorcha,” she said, frowning only slightly, regarding him with their grandfather’s gray eyes.
“Ah forgive me. Last time I saw you, you were—” He held his hand about three feet off the grass. She’d been barely five when he left, with freckles and missing front teeth and unruly red curls. She grinned at him with a full set of teeth now, but she was still freckled, he noted, happy that hadn’t changed. In a few years, little Sorcha would be a beauty. His heart contracted as he thought of the years he’d missed, and would miss in future.
“You look just the same as I remember!” she said, her eyes glowing. “Mama said you were dead, but Muira knew you’d come!”
Another girl arrived. “Alanna?” he asked carefully. She’d grown up to be very pretty, her and her eyes were still as blue as the sky
“Yes!” She smiled shyly.
“And Megan,” he said, smiling at the young woman who hung back slightly. She curtsied, and held out her hand.
“Hello, Laird. I’m Megan MacNabb—” She whooped when he pulled her into an embrace, swinging her in a circle before he set her on her feet again.
“You weren’t so heavy the last time I did that,” he teased, and watched her blush. “Is that lavender water I smell?” he asked.
Sorcha laughed, slipping her hand through his. “It’s very English. Mother makes Alanna wear rose scent.”
Alec ruffled her hair. “And what about you? What scent do you wear?”
“She’s just a child, Alec.” Megan said.
“I’m almost thirteen!” Sorcha protested. “When I am seventeen like Alanna, I will send to France for the finest perfume—lilies or violets, or even gardenias!”
The village lads and lasses stepped forward, welcoming him home with shy smiles. “This is Brodie MacNabb,” Megan said as the last lad stepped forward. The girls surrounding him sighed at the mention of his name.
“I’m the heir,” he said. “Conor MacNabb’s lad. D’you remember me?”
Alec had met the boy at his grandfather’s funeral, and remembered him as sullen and hungry. He’d spent the day hiding under the table, eating. The heir. His heir. If he hadn’t come home, this tall boy with blank blue eyes would be laird at this very minute.
“Have you been at Glenlorne long?” he asked. Conor’s holding was miles away.
“Devina summoned me when the last laird died—in case you were dead too. I see you aren’t.”
He didn’t sound happy about that, Alec noted. He also noted the way Megan looked at him. He stepped forward and put his arm around his sister. “I’m sure there’s plenty of news I need to catch up on,” he said, turning away from Brodie.
“What time is it?” Megan asked as a cloud passed over the sun.
Alec took out his watch. “Nearly five. Why? Is the Midsummer fire tonight?”
“Of course not—you have been away too long. It’s not until tomorrow night,” Alanna said.
“I’m to be the lord of Midsummer at the bonfire,” Brodie said.
“Alec is home now, and he’s the laird. He’ll do it—won’t you, Alec?” Alanna insisted.
“We’re late for tea!” Megan said. “Mother will be livid!”
“Livid?” Alec asked.
“Fair vexed,” Sorcha translated. “She’s probably sitting in the drawing room with Miss Forrester, both of them dressed for tea, wondering where we are.”
“And who is Miss Forrester? Alec asked.
“Our governess,” Megan said distractedly, still gazing at Brodie.
“Did you bring us presents?” Alanna asked, linking her arm with his, grinning at him. She used to have plaits he liked to pull. Her hair was loose now, swirling in the breeze. He twined a lock of it around his finger, and felt the curls cling like vines.
“Of course I did.”
“Books?” Alanna asked.
“Silk? Lace?” Megan pleaded.
“Sweets?” Sorcha demanded, and Alec laughed.
“Wait and see,” he said, and offered his youngest sister his other arm. Megan walked down the hill with Brodie and a half-dozen other lasses who had the same besotted looks on their rosy faces.
It wasn’t until he reached the bottom of the hill he remembered that he’d left poor Lady Sophie alone near the tower. Who else could it have been but Sophie? Englishwomen were hardly common in the Highlands. He scanned the hill around the tower—and the window, just to be sure she hadn’t climbed back to her perch—but there was no sign of her.
She’d probably slipped away, gone back to the inn, or wherever she was staying with her father to wait for a proper arrival, a formal introduction. He marveled again that Bray had arrived so quickly. Sophie was a beauty, and he recalled the soft, feminine weight of her in his arms as he’d caught her in the tower. He hadn’t wanted to let her go.
Perhaps marriage wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Angus and Georgiana watched Alec go down the hillside. Angus wiped away a tear. “He’s home at last. I’d say we’re off to a good start, wouldn’t you?”
“You frightened Caroline witless when you pushed her,” Georgiana replied.
“ ’Twas all for the good. Did you see the look in Alec’s eyes when he caught her?” Angus chuckled. “I know what the lad was feeling—the same thing I felt the moment I saw you.”
“I remember,” Georgiana said. “How could I ever forget?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The countess had assigned Caroline to a room on the top floor of the tower. The room was large, with a bed, large wooden table, a shelf of books, and a window that offered a breathtaking view of the glen. It wasn’t a servant’s room, but it wasn’t near the family’s apartments either. In the safety of her quarters, Caroline splashed cool water over her flushed face, but the sun-kissed glow—and the glow of mortification at her own behavior—wouldn’t come off. She bound her hair extra tight, and put on the plainest gown she could find, a soft gray muslin with a high neck she had purchased in Edinburgh before arriving here. Now she looked like a governess.
Muira followed her up. “The lasses are back. They found their brother on the hillside, and they all but carried him home.” The old woman gave Caroline an almost toothless grin. “It’s good to have a laird back at Glenlorne again. He’ll set things right now.”
Laird? Caroline felt her cheeks flame anew. There could be no mistaking whom she met in the tower, then. Her stomach shrank into her spine. She’d acted like a ninny! She’d have to face him at dinner, since teatime had long since passed. Or line up for inspection with the rest of the servants, the way Charlotte made her staff do whenever she arrived at one or another of the Somerson estates. Impropriety, or even a stain on one’s uniform, might result in instant dismissal or a mild rebuke, depending on Charlotte’s mood.
“She insists there be a formal dinner in the hall tonight to welcome His Lordship home.” Muira set her hands on her hips. “His Lordship! He’ll always be wee Alec to me, and I know he’d prefer a good hot supper with all the folk, and a dram or two of good whisky to toast his homecoming.” She looked around the room. “This was his bedchamber when he was a lad, but he’ll be in the laird’s quarters now. I was actually sent to say ye’ll have to sup with us in the kitchen tonight, miss. The meal is for family only. She would like you to help the girls dress, make sure they look like proper ladies.”
“Of course.” Caroline almost sighed with relief. She wouldn’t have to face the new Earl of Glenlorne just yet. She gave Muira a blinding smile. “I would like that very much—dining in the kitchen, I mean.”
“Aye?” Muira squinted at her. “Ye’re not even curious to get a look at him? He’s a braw man. He always was, o’ course, but he’s filled out now, all fit and fine.”
Caroline felt a blush creep over her cheeks. Yes, the man was braw indeed. And strong. She could still feel his hands on her waist, his eyes on her exposed ankles.
“Ye looked flushed, lass. Did ye get too much sun today?” Muira asked.
She turned away from Muira’s curious eyes. “I think I’d better go down and help the girls dress.”
She took the curved stairs, so like the ones in the old tower, yet broader here. How long could she manage to avoid the new laird? Hopefully, he’d have a great many things to do over the next days, weeks, or even months, and forget her entirely if she kept to the schoolroom. Somerson barely remembered she existed at all—unless there was a problem, such as the need to marry her off so he might forget her permanently. She doubted her half brother had ever bothered himself to even wonder about his daughters’ governess. She was a servant herself now, more invisible than she’d ever been before.
Alec looked around the table at the gracious young ladies surrounding him. His half sisters weren’t the carefree girls they’d been on the hillside. They sat at their mother’s table—his table—with their backs straight, their gloved hands clasped in their laps, and polite debutante smiles pasted on their faces. He could almost believe he was back in London, at the kind of dinner party the Countess of Westlake might give on her husband’s behalf for influential people.
The conversation tonight was in English, and the girls were dressed in English finery. Only the excited glow in their eyes gave him hope that they were still the girls he remembered.
Muira substituted for Westlake’s proper butler, and two clansmen assisted, lads he’d grown up with, now his servants. Jock MacNabb winked
at him as he poured wine into Alec’s glass, and Leith Rennie beamed from his post at the sideboard.
“Where did these come from?” Sorcha asked, holding up a crystal wineglass.
“Heirlooms,” Muira replied as she served the soup, a rich chicken broth. She refrained from looking at the countess, but Alec knew her next remark was directed at Devorguilla like a poison-tipped arrow shot from a bow. “Many fine things were sold off when old Laird Angus died, but a few of the important ones were preserved.”
“Like the tales grandfather used to tell about family treasures hidden after Culloden?” Alanna asked.
Muira’s lips tightened. “Best not to speak of that day.”
Alec watched Devorguilla’s chin rise. “And I suppose these fine things will disappear again after the meal, along with the silver, and the wine?”
Muira smiled archly. “Och, they’ll just be put back into safekeeping, so the silver doesn’t need polishing all the time. They’ll get more use now the laird is home.”
“It was necessary to sell some things to feed and clothe ourselves,” Devorguilla said, not quite making eye contact with Alec.
“In luxury,” Muira murmured in Alec’s ear as she served his soup with a flourish.
“Did you expect the girls to wear rags, go about with no shoes on their feet?” Devorguilla demanded. Alec realized that Muira was speaking Gaelic, and Devorguilla was answering in English. “They are the daughters of an earl.”
“And the sisters of an earl too,” Muira shot back. “He’ll see them well cared for.” Every eye in the room looked to him for assurance of that. Alec sipped his wine and stared into his soup.
“Oh, no doubt he will—just as his father did.” Devorguilla said acidly. “The girls are my responsibility. They must be fit to wed earls and lords according to their station in life.”
Once Upon a Highland Summer Page 8